


saving atlas

by izabellwit



Series: in the aftermath [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Apologies, Banter, Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Volume 7 (RWBY), Recovery, Spoilers: Volume 7 (RWBY), Trust Issues, Volume 7 (RWBY), takes place immediately after the finale, this is literally just my excuse to write oz & oscar banter, tired wizard man and angry farm boy attempt to figure out next steps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izabellwit/pseuds/izabellwit
Summary: In the aftermath of the Atlas disaster, Oscar and Oz figure out where they stand. But first: shelter.(or: in which Oscar is Upset, Oz is the voice of reason, and Atlas winters prove to be the most immediate foe, incoming invasion non-withstanding. When the weight of the world is bearing on your shoulders, what are you supposed to do?)
Relationships: Ozpin & Oscar Pine
Series: in the aftermath [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636153
Comments: 29
Kudos: 226





	saving atlas

**Author's Note:**

> I literally binged-watched RWBY for the first time like, a week ago, and I'm already so deep inside this rabbit hole. What a masterpiece.
> 
> This takes place after the finale for Volume 7, so if you haven't seen that yet, I don't recommend reading this. On the other hand, if you have seen it, and are also freaking out about the wizard being back, then huzzah! This fic is all about the wizard. I love Oz. Also, Oscar, oh my god?? The best.
> 
> A note: Ozpin/Ozma is usually referred to by Oscar as "Oz," so that's the name I use for him here. The merge/reincarnation thing is still vague enough that I have no idea of which names he prefers or not. Alas.

“Stop,” Oscar says. 

The air is so cold it burns against his face, every inhale like a knife right to his lungs. The icy breeze saps what little warmth his coat might have given him, and right now even his aura is no help. He’s used it all up—aura and magic and whatever else besides—and now he’s left standing in the snow, with less than nothing. Oscar is cold and tired, and he wasn’t prepared for this, didn’t leave thinking he’d end up _here_ —

He stops the thought in its tracks, mercilessly. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He just can’t. Already the memory coils in his gut, tight and angry, beating like a hollow ache. It rises up and he has to swallow it down before he does—something. Scream, maybe. Or worse— cry.

_Ironwood is going to leave Mantle to die._

Even just the thought, Oscar thinks, chills him worse than the wind.

“All I want to know,” he says, at last, “is how we save Atlas next.”

He can feel Oz’s hesitation like a lump in his throat. Fear of a different sort, preemptive defeat. _That may be—a harder task than we can handle._

“It’s not about handling it!” He means to sound calm; instead, his voice snaps. Oscar closes his eyes, and grits his teeth against a scream. “He’s going to—to—”

Pain flares up his side like a spark, right where the bullet had hit. Oscar presses a hand against the bruise and exhales hard. “Please. I—” The words are bitter, but the feeling behind them is complicated. He is _so tired._ And Oz has been gone for a long time, when they really could have used him back sooner. But at the same time, Oscar understands. And he is also just so, so grateful, that at least in this moment, he is not out here in the cold alone. “I don’t know what to do.”

_…To start, perhaps shelter._

“Oz—”

 _We are no help to anyone like this._ Oz sounds as reluctant as Oscar feels; this mollifies him little. _Your aura is broken. You… we need to rest._

“But Salem—!” He can’t finish. Just the name makes his head spin, pounds through his skull with all the gravitas and fear of hundreds of lives. If he heard Ruby’s transmission right, then Salem is planning to come to Atlas. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe _now._ In the back of his mind, the memories that aren’t his own whisper: _Bad things happen when Salem comes calling._

Oz, too, in his head, takes a long moment to answer. _…I know._ It’s funny, that for all the memories Jinn showed them, there is nothing in Oz’s voice that speaks of once loving this woman. All Oscar can feel from him is dread, and a dull hatred borne from years of endless loss. Every good thing Oz ever tried to do, Salem has always destroyed. _But that doesn’t change the facts. You are already freezing. And, I imagine, in a great deal of pain. The bullet didn’t break through your aura, but that doesn’t mean it won’t leave a mark._

He wants to argue it, but fresh pain flares and Oscar can’t. Oz is more right than he probably realizes. He shakes his head. “But…”

_Oscar, please. I hate this as much as you do, but if we do not recover, then we will be less than useless. And that will be so much worse._

Oscar breathes in. The air burns. It’s so cold it takes everything he is just to keep from shivering, and Oscar exhales slowly through his teeth. Damn it. _Damn_ it. He’s not going to cry. “…Fine.” 

There is a feeling from Oz like relief, wordless and grateful, and Oscar ignores him, rubbing at his arms for warmth and finally taking in his surroundings. Shelter. He needs shelter, and a place to hide, until he can face the cold with aura in place. But his surroundings are cold and gray, barren. A great downward spiral of a pit, with roughshod buildings and unpaved roads. The houses are sparse and decaying, little more than hollow shells. He can’t even see any heating grates. 

_This_ is what lies under Atlas? This is the pit beneath the city? It looks… it _is…_ worse off than even Mantle. He’d call it abandoned, except it’s clearly not—just neglected to a degree that makes something in Oscar go small and furious. 

The sting of disappointment rises up in his throat, stronger this time, strangling. He’d really thought… they’d been so close! So close to saving Mantle, to choosing trust. But maybe they were never as close to peace as Oscar had hoped. Maybe this was always going to fall apart. He gets the sudden and looming sense that Ironwood never really saw Mantle, or this place, as worth saving at all. 

_You couldn’t have known._ Oz sounds tired. _It’s not your fault._

Oscar starts walking. His feet sink in the snow. “You weren’t there.” There’s no accusation in his voice—just fact.

 _…No. But I—saw what happened. In a way. And it wasn’t your fault, Oscar. You did—everything right._ Another pause, longer this time, and Oz concludes, very quiet: _You did better than I ever could._

Oscar hesitates mid-step, staring at the ground. He wants to protest, but he can feel the sincerity. Oz means it. It makes something go funny in his chest, to hear that. Oscar blinks down at the ground, watching his shoes, and doesn’t answer. Just remembers, suddenly and clearly, the first thing Oz had said to him. _Actually,_ ** _you_** _saved us._ Now he wonders, quietly, if maybe Oz had meant something other than just surviving the fall. 

Oscar doesn’t ask, though. He puts a bracing hand against his side, still sore, and looks up into the sky. Atlas is a looming shadow, and the storm clouds are dark and forbidding… but still. The pale light of the coming dawn is beautiful against the ice. 

“I’m glad you’re back, Oz,” he says, finally.

_You don’t need to lie to me, Oscar._

“I’m not.” He starts walking again. “I got used to hearing you, I guess. And you weren’t so bad, really. And then, when you just… weren’t there…” He’s not sure how to explain it—the emptiness, the hollow pit, the _silence_ worst of all—so he doesn’t try. He takes another step, hand pressing harder at his side. The pain is blinding. Oscar takes a shaky breath. “I never hated you. Not really. I just—I wanted the truth. I think we all did.”

_…I know._

“Mm.” He takes another step, and his knee almost buckles. “Ah—”

_May I?_

“What?” Oscar blinks, fast. His first instinct is to say no—he’s never liked losing control—but already he can already feel Oz pulling away, and Oscar swallows down the instinctual denial. Oz only means to help. And honestly, Oscar could use a break. But on the other hand… “It’s not gonna be fun, feeling this.”

 _I assure you, I have gone through far worse._ Oz’s tone is almost dry. _You’ve seen a few._

For a moment Oscar has no idea what he’s talking about, but then the memories click. Ohhh, right, the constant death via godly bickering, and not to mention that whole bit with dragging himself across the ground while suffering from a terrible stomach wound… Yeah, no, Oscar remembers. “Still—”

_Please. If you won’t let me apologize… at least let me shoulder some of the burden._

Oscar considers this and sighs. He closes his eyes, drifting back—and then his limbs are not his own, and he is there and yet he is not, and the pain is suddenly and wonderfully far away, barely an echo. 

Oz, in control now, takes a sharp breath and almost stumbles. “Oh.”

_Told you._

“You did, but I confess, I didn’t expect…” He presses a hand to their side. “You’ve had a hard battle.”

_Bullet didn’t help._

“No.” Oz’s voice goes briefly hard. “No, I suppose not.” He straightens, turning around to look, flexing their fingers. For a moment their mouth pulls in a grimace. 

_Are you okay?_

“Just—unused to this. I’ve never… done—well, that, before. Locking myself away. Now… It feels like going out of practice.” He rolls their wrist, flicks out the cane. “I’ll adjust.”

_You old man._

Oz exhales hard, almost a laugh. His surprise flickers bright and warm, the barest hint of a smile. “Well, I suppose that _is_ true…”

The conversation tapers off, and Oz takes them higher up the pit, closer to Mantle’s edge. Beyond that momentary stumble, the pain doesn’t seem to touch him at all; with the cane as a crutch, he walks as if they are perfectly fine, rather than on the verge of collapse. Which is good, Oscar supposes. People tend to remember injured children, and tend to ignore weird ones walking with fancy canes. Good for staying undercover.

On one of the ledges of the pit, they find a small house with the door already swung open. Oz takes them inside, and shoves the door shut behind them. The heating is still off—if it even exists down here, a thought that makes Oscar flinch and Oz tight-lipped—but there’s some moth-eaten blankets in one corner and an empty bed elsewhere, and Oz curls them up in the corner of the abandoned home, with some food and a small water bottle he’d swiped from the cupboard.

Oscar takes in the place, the tiny kitchen and barren bedroom, and sighs. _Who do you think lived here?_

“Hopefully someone who managed to evacuate.” Oz sips at the water. “We’ll take an hour to recover here. Then, we need to discuss our next move.”

_I don’t know where the others are. I told them to go ahead…_

“With luck, they have. If they’ve been detained, that may pose a… difficulty.” Oz pats down their side. “Where did you put your scroll?”

_Left pocket. Wait, wouldn’t you know?_

“When I say I was watching, it was really only the barest minimum of awareness. That is, when you were stressed, or felt you were in danger. So no.” Oz tugs out the scroll, pulling it open. “Hmm.”

_Surprised it isn’t broken._

“They are remarkably sturdy things.” He taps their finger against the screen, frowning faintly. “Oh, joy.”

There is a bright blue alert flashing across the screen—updated orders for the whole of Atlas Military. Oz taps at it, and the banner expands, taking up the screen. A row of faces stares up at them. The main group—RWBY and JNPR—are listed under a banner labeled _Arrest on Sight_ . Qrow is now under _Detained_. And Oscar—

There’s an X through his photo, and a small note beneath his name. _Deceased._

For a moment neither of them says anything. The silence weighs down like a physical thing. Oz shifts on the bed and exhales hard, and then lifts a hand, tentative, to their cheek. Their fingers come away damp with tears. “Oscar.” 

_Are you—?_

“…No.”

 _Oh._ Which means… the tears are Oscar’s.

With that understanding, all at once, everything crashes down on him. Neapolitan. Losing the relic. Facing Ironwood, hoping against hope something could still be salvaged, and then—

Oscar is suddenly glad to not be in control anymore. If he was, he thinks he might crumple, or worse, hyperventilate. Everything goes shaky. Their vision blurs. _I…_

Oz carefully wipes the tears away with one edge of the blanket, their sleeves too dirtied and torn for use. “It’s okay.”

_I don’t even know why…_

“I do.” Oz lifts a hand to their chest. “I feel it too. We trusted him. We thought he would make the ri—" He stumbles, briefly. “…a good choice. We thought things would be okay. That Atlas and Mantle could stand together, that Remnant could be reunited. And even then.” Oz sounds bitter. “In that final moment. My presence would have only angered him, I think, but—I’d truly hoped that you would be able to change Ja… General Ironwood’s mind. I never thought…”

 _He shot me._ The words are dull, empty, devoid. The shock hasn’t hit him yet. Not really. _He tried to kill me. He thinks he_ **_did_ ** _kill me. And I don’t think he even cares._

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

_Why are you apologizing?_

“I—”

_Oh._

“Never mind.”

 _No. No, you’re right. I think—I always thought so too._ The bitterness settles down on both them, a shroud. _Always trying to wake you up… and even then, he asked which one of us it was, when I walked down there. I wonder if he ever saw me for me._

“The others did. Do. Miss Rose, Mister Arc, Miss Valkyrie… I have seen that, too. They care deeply for you.”

_And now they’re going to think I’m dead, too._

“…Ah. A fair point.” Oz frowns down at the scroll. “This is, perhaps, a problem.”

_Can we get in contact with them?_

“Hmm.” He brings a hand to their ear, to the comm piece, and waits. Nothing. “We are still too far out of range, I think. Too far below. If we got back to the sky…”

Oscar considers something else. _It says… Qrow got detained._

“…so it does.”

_What prison do you think they’d throw him in?_

“I have a few ideas.” But Oz sounds hesitant. He swallows. “Oscar—”

_Hm?_

“I—that is, I am not sure…” He trails off, as if unable to finish. Their lips pull in a grimace.

 _He’ll be mad._ Oscar is frank, certain. _I mean, probably. The others too. But it’s not the same as before. We’ve all had time. Atlas has… we’ve grown a lot. All of us. You said you were watching some of it—you saw that too, right?_

“I did.” There is a quiet warmth there. A muted pride.

_Then, you know. They’ll be angry, I think. But Qrow—and the others, they’ll listen. We’ll listen. You came back. And whatever you say about me saving us, well, you kept me from blacking out, which is its own help, so._

“Oscar—”

 _You’re not—it’s not like with Ironwood. You’re not an enemy. I’m pretty sure no one ever saw you as one. They just wanted the truth, and now we have it… and if I’ve learned_ **_anything_ ** _from today, then its only too late if you make it that way. You can always still choose trust. You can still choose to_ **_build_ ** _trust._

Oz goes quiet, distant. He stares off at nothing, and then slowly shakes his head. His smile is a faint, disbelieving thing—but genuine, too. “I said before that I had reasons for the things I do. For the lies, especially.” He closes his eyes. “But I admit, Oscar. These past few weeks have… swayed me to your side, so to speak.”

_The truth didn’t break them, Oz._

“No. It didn’t.” He straightens. “All right. We’ll do it your way. _Trust others,_ as you like to say. Starting with…” He taps the scroll. “You’re quite right. Qrow would despise prison.”

_So…_

“We need to find a way to Atlas.” Oz downs the last of the water and food, and stands, stretching out their arms. Their aura flickers up, weak but slowly strengthening. “Evacuations have stopped in Mantle, but if I can find us a ship…”

_You can fly an airship? Wait, what am I saying…_

“Beyond crash-landing expertise, I was also there when they were first being built, you know.”

 _Wow, you really are ancient._ But Oscar almost feels like laughing, the earlier grief beaten back. He hasn’t realized until now how much he’d missed Oz. And he thinks... he _did_ miss Oz _._ He hasn’t missed all of it—the fighting, the lies, the body-snatching—but he’d missed this. The echo of a voice in his head. The warmth of not being alone. Of having someone there to turn to, whether Oscar needed it or not. 

And strangely, for all the time he’s been gone, Oz being back is… easier, somehow, than it was before. Less like being haunted, and more like living in tandem. Maybe it’s the merge, or the shared memories… or maybe it's something else. Relief, perhaps. There are no more lies or fears to stand between them. All of Oz’s secrets are now brought to light, no more pretending necessary—and Oscar, at ease with his fate, has grown stronger and surer of his place here, all on his own. 

It feels… equal, now. As if, for the first time, Oscar and Oz are finally on the same page. 

_Thank you for coming back._

Oz hesitates. “I should have—”

 _It doesn’t matter._ He can’t smile, but he hopes the feeling comes across. _Just… thanks._

“…Of course.” Oz ducks their head. Then he takes a breath. “Well, then! To Atlas.”

Oscar almost laughs at him, but that would be rude. Instead, he settles back with a sigh. _So, what now… find a ship, save Qrow, connect with the others, help Mantle, stop Salem’s probable invasion…_

“One thing at a time,” Oz says, smiling faintly, and pries open the front door, stepping back into the sun. The air burns with winter fury; the wind howls a storm. But the cold is lessened, beaten by their aura, and the oncoming darkness of the storm still pales, for now, to the sun-lit horizon. In this moment, the worst has not yet come. In this moment, there is still a chance. The determination rises in them twofold, a feeling like setting your feet and lifting your head, and the grief of the long night fades away, if only for now. 

_Let’s go save Atlas._

Oz’s smile grows, a little wider, a little stronger. He lifts their head, tilting their face back to the sun. In the glint of sunlight, their eyes burn bright and gold.

“Agreed,” Oz says, and heads toward the city proper, cane in hand and gait steady, taking the first step of many on the long trek back.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: This fic now has a prison-break sequel, which you can read **[here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22757461)** (Or [here,](https://izaswritings.tumblr.com/post/190860287662/title-building-trust-fandom-rwby-synopsis) if tumblr is more your style.)
> 
> Oz as a character just delights me. Here's this semi-immortal ancient medieval warrior hero whose been reincarnating for like, thousands of years, and instead of being _anything_ like you'd expect he's just this mild-mannered, polite teacher who drinks hot chocolate from a teapot and lies like a fucking pro. actual comedy gold skjdgfhj
> 
> Anyways, the dynamic between Oscar and Oz has always been super interesting to me, and I'm curious to see how it'll change post volume 7. Oz has no more lies to hide behind, Oscar has fully stepped into his place as part of the team and friend in his right, and anyway, it's just bound to be great. Also I predict they're gonna be 100% more hilarious now. Watch them break Ironwood's knees. I'm already making the popcorn.
> 
> [If you wanna rec this fic, you can reblog it here!!](https://izaswritings.tumblr.com/post/190826767207/title-saving-atlas-fandom-rwby-synopsis) Also, if you have any questions or just want to talk, [my tumblr](http://izaswritings.tumblr.com) is always open!!
> 
> Any thoughts?


End file.
